by Agatha Frost
Claire nodded, the seriousness in her father’s eyes unsettling her.
“The likelihood of the police pinning down who poisoned Jane is slim to none,” he whispered, leaning in. “It could have happened at any time, and she was one of the most accessible people in the village.”
“She always had a cup of tea on the counter in the café.”
“Exactly.” He scratched at the side of his head. “The human body is far too good at storing poisons like arsenic. A tiny bit might not kill you, but if you had a tiny bit regularly, you’d become the walking dead. Unless Jane was sprinkling arsenic into her own tea, someone planned her murder perfectly. As far as I’m concerned, they’ve already got away with it.”
“Which is why I can’t just give up.” Claire glanced up at the ceiling. “Em is depending on me.”
“And if you get closer to the truth,” he said, pausing to look at the coffee cup Claire was raising to her lips, “the more the culprit is going to push back. It doesn’t take much poison to kill a person.”
Claire stopped mid-slurp and forced the coffee back into the cup through her lips; all of a sudden, the caffeine didn’t seem worth it.
“I’m being careful,” she said, attempting to laugh it off.
“How do you know?” He stared into her coffee cup again. “I don’t say this to scare you, Claire, but you wouldn’t notice until it was too late.”
“Oh, give it a rest, will you!” Janet hurried over to clear away Claire’s cup. “You’ve been in a foul mood all morning, Mister! Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” She wiped the cup ring, her eyes trained on the stack of coasters Claire always forgot to use. “We’ve got the killer in our shower. She’s not going to get away with it.”
The letterbox snapped, and the soft thud of the post hitting the doormat offered a welcome distraction.
Janet took the cup into the kitchen, and Alan hurried into the hallway at a speed Claire hadn’t seen from him in a while. Seconds later, he bowed out of the cottage and disappeared back to his shed.
“Don’t you think you should go and get dressed if you’re going shopping, Claire?” her mother called over her shoulder as she scrubbed at the cup with a soapy sponge. “And a comb through your hair wouldn’t go amiss.”
“I am dressed.” Claire tugged at her t-shirt. “I bought this in the shop we’re about to go to. And before you say it, no I didn’t dig it out of the bin behind it or find it on the street outside.”
“Was it on sale?”
“It’s a charity shop.” Claire laughed. “Everything is on sale.”
Their eyes went up to the ceiling when the shower cut off. Janet dried her hands on a tea towel and marched past Claire into the hallway.
“I’m coming with you,” she announced, already pulling on her coat. “I’m not leaving you with her. She’s clearly got you under some kind of spell.”
“Sometimes, nice people are simply nice people.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Claire.” Janet applied lipstick in the hallway mirror before fluffing up her hair. “I’m telling you she was seconds away from confessing it all before you came down. I could feel it in my—”
“Waters?” Claire cut in as she pulled on her light blue denim jacket. “You’re barking mad, Mother.”
“We’ll see.”
While Em descended the stairs to join them, Claire stared down at the doormat. The post was still there, seemingly untouched. She glanced down the hallway to the back door; something was going on with her father, she knew that much.
“I think that was the best shower I’ve ever had,” Em said with an easy smile when she reached the bottom of the stairs. “I only had to close my eyes and I was under a waterfall.”
“It’s all new,” Janet revealed proudly, her ‘we have guests’ smile back in full force. “Best of the best, according to the man in the showroom.” She plucked the car keys from the rack on the wall and tossed them to Claire. “Wait for me in the car. I have to go and remind your father to turn the slow cooker on if I’m not back within the hour.”
Janet hurried into the kitchen, leaving Claire to pull her handbag down from the coat rack. One of the leather straps caught on the hook. The bag tipped, and the contents spilt onto the floor. The picture of the two men kissing at the observatory sat face up in the sea of shiny chocolate wrappers, screwed up tissues, and crinkled receipts.
Em, being the kind – and limber – woman she was, squatted to help pick up the mess before Claire could bend her knees. She picked up the picture, and her smile faded entirely.
“Is that Eric?” Em asked, taking the picture with her to the bottom step. “Why do you have this?”
Blood rushed to Claire’s face, burning her from the inside out.
“I was going to mention it last night,” Claire said, unable to look at Em as she stuffed the rubbish back into her bag, “but the timing never felt right. The police gave me some vinyl records they found in the attic with your mother, and that was in with them.”
“This was my mother’s?” Em’s eyes drifted through the wall as she tapped the picture against her palm. “You don’t think—”
“That it’s one of the photographs your father spoke about?” Claire cut in, glad Em didn’t seem angry with her for not instantly mentioning the discovery. “That’s where my mind went.”
“After all these years,” Em said under her breath as she looked down at the image, “I understand why my mother abruptly abandoned her search for Eric. Whoever sent her this must have known it would crush her. And not just because of another husband’s infidelity. As much as she wouldn’t turn a paying customer away, my mother was never a tolerant woman.” She inhaled deeply, eyes drifting up to Claire. “Just another reason we never saw eye to eye. Let’s just say her problems with Marley and his café stretched beyond mere competition, and unlike my father, it wasn’t because of his veganism.”
The back door opened, and as if reading Claire’s mind, Em stuffed the picture in the pocket of her brightly patterned baggy joggers.
“You never could do as you were told.” Janet huffed as she marched to the coat stand and whipped the floral scarf off its hook. “What are you idling around for? The shops close at five.”
Claire glanced at the clock on the wall; it hadn’t even gone ten in the morning. She finished cramming the chocolate wrappers into her bag before her mother could see how many she’d gone through since she’d taken it upon herself to clean out the last lot. Janet pulled open the door and shooed them both out like children as soon as Claire’s bag was over her shoulder.
As usual when her mother was behind the wheel, the drive into the village was a slow and cautious one. After almost fifteen minutes, they pulled up outside of Still Loved Clothing, two doors down from Marley’s Café on one of the many side streets leading away from the square.
“Are you going to be okay, Mother?” Claire asked, resting her hand on her mother’s arm. “I know how you feel about second-hand things.”
“Sometimes your impression of me is so wrong, Claire.” Janet pulled the keys out of the ignition. “I got this very scarf here last month. I’m not above a bargain, you know.” She glanced through the rear-view mirror at Em and added with a bright smile, “And doing my bit to recycle, and whatnot.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Em said with a chuckle as she opened the door. “Looks like Lena is working today. She’s a good friend of mine.”
There was a British Heart Foundation charity shop on the other side of the square that sold more general items along with clothes, but Still Loved was more of a curated boutique with low price tags. That the profits went to charity was a welcome bonus.
The window display of Still Loved changed frequently and often had a theme. Last time she’d visited, the theme had been dark floral patterns with decorative dried flowers. This time, an explosion of colour with bright rainbow prints and ornamented with warm sunflowers filled the window.
Claire instantly recognised Lena as they en
tered, although she hadn’t known her name. With alabaster freckled skin and long, dreadlocked ginger hair, her face was instantly recognisable. As far as Claire knew, she’d moved to Northash with her husband from Poland a few years ago.
“Em!” Lena kissed her on both cheeks. “So good to see you again! I am so sorry to hear about . . . everything. How are you feeling?”
“I’ll get through.” Em waved her hand and pushed Claire forward. “I’m actually here with my friend Claire. She’s looking for a new pair of jeans.”
“Jeans?” Lena looked Claire up and down, although more out of curiosity than the judgement she was used to. “If your perfect pair is in here, I will find it.”
“Lena’s amazing at this,” Em whispered to Claire while the shopkeeper pulled a tape measure from a drawer under the counter. “Trust her.”
Like Em had done upon first meeting Claire, Lena scooped up her hand. She guided her to the denim section at the back of the shop. While Janet flicked through a rack of cardigans and Em dug through a box of rings, Lena measured Claire’s legs like she was going to perfectly replicate them at a later date.
Lena assessed several pairs carefully, checking tags and pulling pairs out, passing them to Claire. When Lena had gone through the entire stock of jeans, Claire had a pile of six, each a different shade of blue, black, or grey.
“Call if you need any help,” Lena said as she ripped back the Aztec patterned curtain to the shop’s single tiny cubicle. “I think the dark grey ones will suit you the most.”
Alone in the cubicle, Claire cycled through the jeans while soft and strange music she didn’t recognise sang to her through hidden speakers. To her delight, four of the six pairs fit her, and to her surprise, the grey ones with the subtle rips and patched up squares did suit her the most. After a little deliberation, she decided on three pairs.
“Two to replace the ones Mother shrank,” Claire said as she walked back into the shop, “and a spare.”
Em, Lena, and Janet were all at the counter, staring down at three floral scarves laid out there. Her mother’s neck was bare of its formal decoration; her scarf one of the trio. From the confused looks on their faces, it was clear something had happened while she was in the cubicle.
“And you’re sure?” Em asked Lena, the end of one of the scarves in her fist. “You’re sure it was him?”
“Without a doubt,” she replied as she scratched at her scalp through her thick dreads. “He chased my husband and me off the grass when we were trying to have a picnic.”
“What’s going on?” Claire asked after putting back the three pairs she didn’t want. “Are you talking about Colin?”
Em nodded, scooping up the three scarves. She held them up like they were trophies of something she’d just hunted.
“I was looking through and found these,” she explained. “I’m certain they all belonged to my mother.”
“I’ve been wearing it for weeks.” Janet rubbed at her neck, clearly uneasy. “I feel sick.”
“Most of our donations come from deceased people,” Lena whispered. “The garden man came in last month with two black bags of women’s clothes. Asked if we accepted donations, and when I said we did, he dumped them on the floor and walked out. Muddy bootprints everywhere!”
“And the rest?” Em asked, looking around the shop.
“Sold.” Lena offered a meek shrug. “There might be some left. I can have a look for them if it’s important?”
Em nodded but didn’t respond. She placed the three scarves on the counter and walked out of the shop. She leaned against the window and looked up at the sky, the rhythm of her shoulders hinting at deep inhales and exhales.
“Are you saying Colin brought in bags of Jane’s clothes?” Claire asked in a whisper as she pulled out fifteen pounds for the three pairs of jeans. “Or have I got the wrong end of the stick?”
“No, you’ve got the correct stick.” Janet pulled back the top pair of blue jeans to reveal the riskier ripped ones underneath. “You know how I feel about rips in trousers, Claire.”
Lena tried to pass the floral scarf back to Janet; she rejected it with a tight smile and a step backwards.
“Good job they’re not yours to wear, Mother.” Claire accepted her change while Lena loaded the items into a brown paper bag. “Thanks, Lena; you really do have a good eye.”
Claire sent her mother back home, and thankfully, Janet didn’t argue. Suddenly, she was very invested in making sure the slow cooker was turned on in time for dinner to be ready for five on the dot.
Alone again, Em and Claire wandered back into the square and took the bench across from the tearoom. At some point in the night, the flowers had been cleared away entirely.
“Why would Colin have all my mother’s clothes?” Em asked in a small voice as she stared up at the window of the flat above the tearoom. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“It explains why there are no suitcases,” Claire suggested, joining her in looking up. “Although Agnes Reid from the bed and breakfast swears she waved your mother off on the morning she left.” She reached into her bag and pulled out the photograph. “She said the taxi drove off with your mother in it, but I can only take that on her word.”
“Did you believe she was being honest?”
“I did.”
They sat in silence for a moment as the square buzzed around them. Babies cried, people laughed, cars honked, but Claire could somehow feel the silence in Em’s mind.
“We need to get some answers from Colin,” Em said, jumping up and pulling Claire up with her. “But first, I think I have a friend who might be able to help us.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
T hey walked a little up Park Lane, but instead of going past the roundabout and up to the side entrance, they turned left. Claire couldn’t remember the last time she’d come this way.
The front of the gate was already buzzing with life while more cars arrived from the opposite direction and found parking spaces outside the park. The Park Inn seemed to be full of people eating breakfast and already drinking pints, but even through the large, bright windows, Claire didn’t recognise the faces the same way she would have in The Hesketh Arms.
Their destination, as it turned out, was in one of the two buildings across from The Park Inn. They passed Cellular Electronic Repairs and continued on to Northash Taxi Rank.
Claire rarely had reason to take a taxi. She seldom left the village, and when she did, it was with her parents or Sally. The few times she had required their services, she’d been far too tipsy after visits to bars and clubs in nearby towns to recall the experience.
“Em!” the man behind the plastic window cried, immediately abandoning the car magazine he was reading and the bacon sandwich he was eating. “I was sorry to hear about . . . How are you holding up?”
“Oh, you know me, Ste.” Em smiled and looked around the small office. “I keep on keeping on.” She turned to Claire and said, “This is Steven Bates. We were in the same year at school.”
Even with no hair to hide behind, Em didn’t look anywhere near her age. Ste, on the other hand, with his stubbly round face and even rounder belly, looked as though he’d lived many years in the opposite direction.
“Class of 1984,” he said proudly as he wiped ketchup from his chin with a napkin. “We used to bunk off school together and go down the market and listen to the new records at the shop for hours.”
“Mrs Garvey always chased us out when we never bought anything.” Em laughed, her eyes glazing over for a moment before snapping back to Ste with renewed determination. “I need your help, Ste.”
“Not in trouble are you, Em?”
“No, no.” She pulled Claire forward. “You know Claire Harris?”
“I don’t, but I know her father.” Ste tipped his head to her, and she returned it. “You’re the spitting image.” He took a bite of his bacon sandwich and leaned back in his chair before asking, “What can I do for you?”
“We’re after
information,” Em said, “about my mother. She was seen leaving the village in a taxi on . . . Claire, do you know the day?”
“January 15th,” Claire provided, “around four in the morning.”
Ste pulled himself up to the desk with the wheeled chair and wiped his fingers down his crumb-covered t-shirt. After another bite of his sandwich, he began clicking and typing at his computer.
“Let me just have a look,” he said, almost to himself. “January . . . yep, here it is. Jane’s Tearoom, four in the morning. Pre-booked a week earlier.” A frowning crease appeared between his brows. “Oh, it says here the job was cancelled at quarter past the hour and never reached its destination.”
“Cancelled?” Claire echoed as her expression mirrored Steven’s. “Maybe he dropped her off somewhere else?”
“Hang on,” Ste said, clicking something, “there’s a note. Says ‘Threw up in my car. Absolute nutcase’.” He glanced at Em. “Sorry, love. You know what blokes can get like. I’m sure he meant no offence.”
“It’s fine.” Em looked at Claire with the same frown before turning back to the window. “Who was the driver?”
Ste took another bite before continuing his search. He grimaced before spinning the screen around to show them a map. It took Claire a second to realise it was a map of the square.
“Let me call Baz,” Ste said, pulling the headset over his head. “Baz? You there, mate? Ah, good. Yeah, it’s a bit of a strange one but do you remember picking up a woman from the tearoom and her throwing up in your car? Yeah, thought you might. Hard to forget the pukers.” Ste listened for a moment, a finger on the earpiece, eyes squinting. “Right, cheers for that. You get back to work.”
Ste dragged the headset off and jabbed a finger on the map, right outside the tearoom.
“Thought it might have been an error, but it turns out it’s not,” he said, leaning back in his chair before tossing in the final chunk of his sandwich. “Journey ended where it began, at the tearoom. Said they’d just got onto the motorway on the way to Manchester Airport and she insisted they turned back because she’d forgotten something important. Threw up on the way back and was calling him all the names under the sun when he said he would charge her for waiting for the return journey. Said whatever she was looking for was taking too long and he was freezing his behind off at that time of the morning in January. And he couldn’t stomach the smell of the sick, so he dumped her cases on the pavement and went to find an open carwash. Is that of any use?”
